


Winter City

by livia_1291



Series: The Dark Months [1]
Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Lalli does individual biathlon, M/M, Now illustrated!!, Olympics, Skiing, Winter Sports, Yes I wrote this with a very particular small town in Canada in mind, based on fanart, biathlon - Freeform, doesn’t actually take place in canada, emil does singles figure skating, emil is a figure skater, emilalli - Freeform, figure skating, he doesn't want a partner distracting everyone from his glamor, lalli is a biathlete, mentions of injury, mikkel is a coach, nebulously nordic background, or maybe it does, reynir is a speed skater, sigrun is a ski jumper, so 20 km skiing and 20 targets, ssss - Freeform, sssscomic - Freeform, sue me, thanks acina!, we write what we know, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24417892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livia_1291/pseuds/livia_1291
Summary: Lalli is a biathlete with Olympic aspirations and the weight of the Hotakainen family name on his shoulders. Emil is a gifted figure skater with a crush on his best friend. When something goes wrong on the ice for Emil, they have to decide what's most important to them: glory, or each other.God, that’s so cliché, I’m bad at summaries. Here, it’s the winter sports SSSS AU that literally nobody asked for, inspired by heliaofbuda's beautiful Winter Olympics au art on Tumblr.
Relationships: Lalli Hotakainen/Emil Västerström, Sigrun Eide & Emil Västerström
Series: The Dark Months [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1909216
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	Winter City

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Зимний город](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25612441) by [fandom Stand Still Stay Silent 2020 (SSSS_Team)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SSSS_Team/pseuds/fandom%20Stand%20Still%20Stay%20Silent%202020), [Kami_Shiroi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kami_Shiroi/pseuds/Kami_Shiroi)



“Again,” Taru commands, and Emil groans as he picks himself up off the ice, rubbing his sore hip. Within the next few hours, he will certainly be sporting an impressive bruise there. His voice echoes in the empty rink, bouncing off the walls to join the buzzing of the bright lights as they warm up.

“How many more times?” He asks breathlessly, and she gives him a mischievous little smile, leaning over the edge of the rink to smack her palm against the cold railing.

“Until you get it.”

There is never any productive way to argue with Taru - Emil learned that very quickly. Back in her younger years, she was a star skater, bringing home Olympic gold for her native Finland three times, and silver twice, before retiring. Now, she is Emil’s most brutal coach (he swears she’s out for him because he’s Swedish - when he brought this up to Sigrun, she had laughed so hard that tears had rolled down her cheeks.)

The goal of a jump in figure skating is twofold: first, to land it at all, and then to land it _beautifully_. Emil is still focusing on the first part. Attempting a triple Axel is treacherous, and he has fallen time and time again, bruising his hips, ankles, and knees, but luckily skirting any major injuries. Bruises and sprains suck, but they come with the territory.

He skates to the outer edge of the rink, gathering speed as he prepares to make his jump. Axel jumps are far from easy, but Taru insists that when he gets it, it will give him an edge over every other figure skater in the competition.

 _If I get it_ , Emil thinks, and launches himself off the ice on the edge of his skate.

When he’s in the air, time slows down, becoming thick, sticky molasses. He turns, once, twice, thrice, and then an extra half-rotation, because of course, Taru picked one of the most ridiculously complicated jumps in figure skating. He’s sure it only takes a second at most, but it feels like forever spent suspended in motion over the ice. 

And then he’s landing, and he has to bend his knee to absorb the force he’s generated, and extend his leg, and-

Taru is grinning at him, and dazedly, Emil realizes that he’s still upright, balanced on the sharp edge of his skate. 

“Did I just…?” He manages, unable to hide his own rapidly growing smile. _Yessss_ , he thinks, turning away to pump his fist into the air when she nods.

“That was cool.” Someone pipes up from behind Taru, and Emil nearly has a heart attack - five minutes ago, they were _definitely_ the only ones at the rink, save for a bored-looking clerk chewing a wad of gum behind the desk. They had come early to ensure they would have the space Emil would require for his techniques, and also to make sure that nobody would spy on them. Figure skating is a wildly competitive sport, and it wasn’t unheard of (or, unfortunately, off-limits) for other coaches to come watch. Taru has her own ways of bypassing that, like waking up at ungodly hours, and glaring daggers at anyone who dares to trespass on their early morning training sessions. In fact, there is only one person he can think of who might be allowed to watch Emil without incurring the wrath of his trainer.

“Lalli?” He gasps, and the man in question approaches the rink to lean on the rail, lithe and catlike in his movements. He’s dressed in a warm grey sweater, but Emil can see the tight base layer peeking out from beneath it - he must have been training too. 

“Hi.”

“Hey.” He skates to the edge of the rink, using his toe pick to stop just short of it and rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly shy. It’s an unusual display for Emil - he’s a proud person, and in front of anyone else, completing and landing a triple Axel would be cause for cool, casual indifference. But this is Lalli, and Lalli is _not_ anyone else. Especially not to Emil. “You, uh, you saw that?”

“I did,” Lalli confirms, and Taru pats him on the shoulder, giving Emil a sly, knowing look that he tries not to notice. 

“Good job, Emil. Off-ice tomorrow, 5:00 AM. He’s all yours, Lalli.”

She graciously pretends not to hear Emil’s resounding moan of protest at the words “5:00 AM,” gathering her bags and coat and waving to them as she exits the rink.

“She’s trying to kill me, I swear it,” he declares, and Lalli rolls his eyes at his amateur dramatics, moving aside so that Emil can step off the ice and unlace his skates. He holds the gleaming silver blades up to the light, looking for something Lalli can’t see, before deciding that they look fine, and carefully packing them into his bag.

“Breakfast?” Lalli offers, and Emil nods with a heavy sigh, rubbing at his bruised hip and wincing at the tenderness of the skin beneath his tight leggings. 

“Ugh, that sounds great. Let me change, and I’ll meet you outside. You’re driving.”

“I know,” Lalli tells him, and Emil watches his best friend wander back to the parking lot with the softest of smiles, before leaving for the privacy of the locker room and the promise of a hot shower and clean clothes.

* * *

The 24-hour diner is quiet when they arrive, and Emil decides that is one of the few perks of waking up at what their friend Sigrun once called “asscrack o’clock.” They choose a booth by the window, and slide in across from each other. The cracked red vinyl seats and cheap faux wood tabletops are as familiar as the back of Emil’s own hand, and their waiter greets them both by name, bringing a pitcher of too-strong black coffee without either of them asking.

Lalli orders his usual, two pancakes and three scrambled eggs, while Emil asks for an omelette and fruit. When their food arrives, Lalli takes the sticky glass pitcher of maple syrup from the corner of the table and empties half of it onto his pancakes, making sure that it doesn’t ooze over to touch the eggs, and then drizzles some into his coffee. Emil primly cuts his omelette into manageable bites, examining the filling to make certain that there are no mushrooms. For a while, they are both quiet as they enjoy their breakfasts, but silence has never been Emil’s strongest suit.

“Isn’t it weird,” he muses through a mouthful of omelette, “that I do a winter sport, and I hate winter?”

Lalli shrugs, reaching across the table to swipe an apple slice. Emil is used to this by now: whatever he orders, Lalli will take a bite of. If he is ever not in the mood to share, all he has to do is ask for an order of blueberry pancakes, and Lalli will glare at him balefully from the corner of the booth as Emil devours every bite on his own. 

“You don’t hate winter,” Lalli reminds him, examining the apple slice critically before taking a bite, “you hate the darkness.” 

“It’s oppressive,” laments Emil, falling dramatically back into the disintegrating foam of the booth seat and grinning at the way Lalli rolls his eyes. “I don’t know how you bear it so gracefully.”

In the heart of winter, it is hard to tell where one day ends, and another begins, but there are ways to survive it, techniques to override the crippling lack of sunlight and the constant cold. Lalli is no stranger to those time-honored methods; he has to maintain his health, even when the dark seasons make it difficult to get up in the morning.

“Skiing. Vitamin D supplements. Fish oil.” Lalli crinkles his pert nose with distaste. “Onni insists. It’s gross. I’ll bring you some.”

“You’d bring me nasty fish oil?” Emil pokes a piece of wilted spinach on his plate, pursing his lips with a wince. “That’s thoughtful, but I’m _so_ not drinking that.”

Lalli points his butter knife at him, and Emil realizes that it’s not an offer. “You will, it’s good for you. Maybe it’ll make you less weird.”

The snort Emil makes is completely undignified, and he hides his face in his napkin, peering over the translucent paper at Lalli, who is serenely chewing his pancakes. 

“I am _not_ weird, thank you very much.”

“You figure skate by choice,” Lalli states matter-of-factly, “that’s weird.”

“You ski _and_ shoot things, like one of those wasn’t hard enough!” 

Lalli is about to snark back, but the door of the diner swings open, and in slogs an eclectic little group, stamping packed snow out of the soles of their boots, and stripping off stocking caps and heavy coats in the doorway.

“Scoot,” groans Sigrun, waving Emil to the side. He does, pressing up against the window to make room for her. Reynir slides in next to Lalli, who shoots him an appropriately venomous look, and Mikkel pulls a chair up to the end of the table.

“I am going to sleep forever,” she proclaims as Mikkel orders another carafe of coffee. “Honestly, who decided that getting up early was the best way to train? I want to have a word with them. Several words, actually, mostly fu-”

Mikkel shuts her up by handing her a cup of burnt coffee, and turns to Lalli, who is huddled in the corner with his food and glaring like someone’s about to steal it from him. 

“Olympic tryouts soon?” he asks, and Lalli nods once.

“Mm.”

“Good luck.”

“I don’t need luck,” Lalli mutters, using his last piece of pancake to polish the syrup off his plate, “I’m the best there is.” His words are cocky, but Emil can read the nervous energy flickering like lightning behind his eyes. These tryouts mean everything to Lalli, the culmination of all of his years of training, the payoff for all the bruises, sacrificed sleep, and harsh coaching.

“I saw you training this morning, on the way to the slopes,” Sigrun interjects, leaning on her elbow, “you’re quick! How’s your shooting?”

“He never misses,” Emil proclaims proudly, and Lalli shrugs, pushing his plate away and taking another slice of apple.

“I practice a lot. More than anyone else.”

There is also, of course, the matter of Lalli’s family. The Hotakainens are biathlon royalty. His grandmother Ensi is the most decorated biathlete in Finnish history, and Lalli’s older cousin Onni had been following in her footsteps before an unfortunate injury ended his career too early. Lalli had been training with Ensi since he was old enough to stand, and had proved himself to be both a formidable skier, and a wickedly sharp shot. He brought home his first medal at age 10, and now, at 19, was on track to make the Olympic team for Finland.

“Well, we’re all rooting for you,” Sigrun chirps, leaning back and tucking into the impressive stack of waffles their waiter had just placed in front of her. “We’ll have to celebrate when you make the team. Real viking style, with lots of vodka and akvavit!”

“Is that such a good idea, with training and all?” asks Reynir over the rim of his coffee cup. Sigrun scoffs.

“ _Please._ I got totally trashed the night before my first major competition and still got gold! Twigs’ll have weeks to recover.” She waves her fork at him, and Reynir stares longingly at the waffle on the end, poking at his own hard-fried eggs. Sigrun is as wild as her discipline - she is a ski jumper, a two-time Olympic gold medalist in the event, and she can drink everyone except Mikkel under the table without batting an eye.

“I think I’ll pass. Skating with a hangover isn’t much fun,” Reynir confesses, curling the long end of his flaming red braid over his shoulder. “Forget a race. I’d fall down and get run over.”

“Bottoms up,” mutters Lalli, and Emil has to smother his laughter. Reynir is a speed-skater, and a very good one at that. He came all the way down from Iceland to train, and he, too, is eyeing the Olympics.

“So you and Reynir have tryouts, and Emil, you’ve got your routine coming up?” 

Emil nods as he finishes the last of his fruit, unsure how Mikkel keeps track of everything they do. The Dane had been a curler before he decided that he was better suited to coaching than competing, so he supposed that keeping track of dates and competitions was nothing that he wasn’t already used to.

“Yeah. The twenty-second, just before Christmas.” At the mention of the date, Lalli winces subtly, and Reynir glances over to him with a silent question in his eyes. “It would be great if you guys could make it.”

“I’ll be there!” Sigrun promises, elbowing Mikkel’s side. He doesn’t have to say anything: where she goes, he follows. “Wouldn’t miss it. I like seeing you wipe the floor with everyone else.”

“I’ll be back from tryouts by then, just text me the details!” Reynir is nothing if not a fiercely loyal friend. Emil was sure that he could tell him that he was going to enter a chili cook off, and Reynir would show up to support him with a hand-painted sign and a borderline embarrassing amount of enthusiasm.

“I...have to go,” Lalli murmurs, and his pretty almond eyes are far away, locked on the snow-blanketed forests across the road. “More training.” Reynir gets up to let him out, and he throws on his knee-length parka, digging his hands into his pockets. He won’t meet Emil’s eyes, shifting his gaze to his high, fur-lined snow boots. “See you.”

“What was that?” Sigrun arches her brow, and Emil only shrugs, watching his best friend pull out of the parking lot and turn down the road in the direction of the cross-country trails.

“Not sure. He’s been training really hard as of late. You know his goal has always been the Olympics.” Emil doesn’t quite understand that ambition - he has always been content with smaller competitions. Figure skating is fun, and it’s a considerable part of who he is, but it isn’t his everything (he’s certainly not planning on going to the Olympics.) Regardless, he supports Lalli, and if he makes the Olympics, there is no question as to whether or not Emil will be there to support him.

“Hope he makes it,” she mutters, drumming her fingers on her forearm, “He’s got the heart of an Olympian.” 

She’s right - Emil loves winning, and that makes him good, but Lalli _hates_ losing, and that makes him great. His persistence and drive are unmatched, and he throws his whole soul into every competition. It’s a reckless sort of passion, but it has gotten him far. 

Reynir purses his lips, stacking their empty plates in the middle of the table and reaching for the parka he’s stuffed in the corner of the booth.

“He will,” he murmurs, “I’m sure of it.”

* * *

It’s late afternoon when Emil knocks on Lalli’s door, a bag slung over his arm and snow glittering in his hair. The sun has already disappeared below the horizon, plunging the world into the near-eternal darkness of midwinter. His breath is a cloud of white under the amber glow of the porch light, and he shifts his weight from foot to foot to keep warm while he waits. There is a flurry of movement behind the foggy window glass, and Tuulikki Hotakainen peeks around the door, lighting up when she sees who it is. 

“Emil! Come in, please, Lalli’s upstairs. He just got back,” she tells him, ushering him into the mudroom where he sheds his boots, gloves, and coat. “I think he’d like to see you.”

“Thanks,” he responds, leaning down to give the orange and white cat perched at the bottom of the stairs a few scratches beneath her chin. Creatively named Kitty, she roams the neighborhood, coming in and out as she pleases, but she has a particular fondness for Lalli, much to the Finn’s chagrin. 

Tuulikki takes his bag for him, peering inside and giving him a fond smile before shooing him upstairs.

When Emil knocks lightly on the door of Lalli’s room, there is no answer. Hesitantly, he opens the door a crack and glances in, before opening it all the way when he realizes the room is empty. It shuts behind him with a click as he takes in the familiar space: the bed is made, and a pair of thin cross-country skis rests by the open window, still dripping with snowmelt. He shivers a little at the temperature in the room - he knows Lalli likes it cold, but this is _ridiculous._

The bathroom door is closed, but Emil can hear the telltale swish of water behind it, and he approaches, rapping lightly against the wood with his knuckles.

“Lalli? It’s me,” he says, and there is a beat of silence, before a sonorant hum of acknowledgement echoes through the room.

“Come in,” Lalli decides after a moment, and Emil slips through the door, closing it behind him.

Lalli is languishing in the claw-footed bathtub, eyes closed and skinny arms draped over the sides. Emil can see cubes of ice floating in the clear water, and he shudders, sinking down on the bathmat beside the tub to rub at the bruise that is blooming angry purple on his hip. 

“Ice bath, huh? You really do love a special kind of torture.”

One silver eye cracks open, and Lalli inhales deeply, sitting up and arching his back in a graceful stretch. Emil has to look away to keep himself from staring. Lalli is beautiful, all cream-pale skin and lean muscle, and he would spend hours cataloguing every bruise and scar, all of the sharp ridges of his spine, and the sweeping valleys of his hips. That was, if Lalli would ever hold still enough to allow it, and if Emil ever had the guts to tell him so.

“They’re good for you,” he yawns, resting one hand on the crown of Emil’s head to thread through his golden hair as he lays back. The moonlight filtering through the high window makes his grey eyes shine, and colors the bath water quicksilver. “I only have a few more minutes.”

“Mhm, you’ve been training hard lately.” Emil chooses his words carefully, crossing his legs and leaning back on his palms. The bath mat is fluffy beneath his fingers, and he kneads it absently, staring at Lalli out of the corner of his eye. “Is everything okay? You kind of left in a hurry this morning.”

He can feel Lalli’s normally steady hand twitch in his hair, silently confirming his suspicions. Something _is_ up.

“You can tell me, Lalli,” he coaxes, and Lalli removes his hand. He sits up, drawing his knees into his chest and wrapping his arms around them to make himself small. He won’t look at Emil, keeping his eyes on the little chunks of ice melting and cracking around him in the water.

“I have to go to Helsinki for tryouts. Fifteenth to the twenty-second.”

The ringing quiet in Emil’s ears is too loud, and he lets go of the breath he’s been holding to shatter it, shoulders slumping just a little. Right. Tryouts. The thing Lalli’s been waiting for his whole life. 

“Is this about not being able to make my competition? Lalli, I already knew that would happen someday, and besides, I support you. Always, no matter what you do. This is important to you, maybe a once in a lifetime thing! I’ll have other competitions.” He’s disappointed, of course, but this isn’t about him right now. The bath mat softens the tile beneath his knees as he shifts into a kneeling position and reaches out to rest his warm palm on Lalli’s bare shoulder. Lalli shudders at the contact, but doesn’t pull away, hiding his face in the circle of his arms.

“Let’s get you out of there,” Emil murmurs, reaching for a towel to hand to him and looking away when Lalli stands, glacial water cascading off of him in rivulets. “Come on, you need to rest and warm up. I brought you some _korvapuustit_ from that bakery by the university, we can watch something and forget about it for now.”

Lalli joins him on his bed, dressed in sweatpants and a loose sweater that gives Emil a very distracting view of his collarbones. He has already gone downstairs to retrieve the cinnamon rolls and returned with four of them on a plate, still warm from the oven. Logically, he would take two, and Lalli would take two, but he knows that it’s going to be something more to the tune of Lalli devouring three of them before Emil can even blink, and then graciously allowing Emil to have the last one out of the goodness of his heart.

“I was thinking we could watch something totally mindless. Brain candy, you know?” He offers, pulling up his Netflix account on his laptop and clicking through a few shows before Lalli points to one, mouth already full of _korvapuusti._

They snuggle up under the comforter, curling next to each other in the pile of pillows heaped at the head of the bed. Lalli’s head rests on Emil’s chest, and Emil has his arm wrapped loosely around his shoulders, idly massaging the lean muscle beneath his sweater. Half an episode passes before Lalli finally speaks, voice soft and muffled against Emil’s sweatshirt.

“I want to support you too,” he murmurs, and Emil reaches out to pause the show, brows furrowing with confusion. So much for forgetting about it.

“You do support me! This is like, the second show you’ve missed since we met, and I never expected you to come to _any_ of them. Besides,” he gazes down at his best friend, who is pressed so close to him that Emil can feel his radiant warmth spilling through their clothes, “I think this is a pretty big deal. This is the Olympics! That’s what you want, right?”

Lalli rarely speaks without thinking, and Emil is used to waiting for responses from him. It’s nearly a minute before he whispers into the crook of Emil’s neck, almost too softly to be audible. 

“I think so. What if it isn’t?”

That isn’t at all what Emil is expecting to hear, but he does his best to keep his surprise to himself. Lalli doesn’t need his dramatic reactions on top of his own stress.

“That’s okay,” he whispers into his hair, and Lalli sighs deeply, warm breath fluttering out across Emil’s throat. “You can figure it out as you go. I don’t think anyone _really_ knows what they want.”

There is another moment of stillness, where they hold onto each other as if gravity might lose its grip any moment. Lalli times his breathing to match Emil’s, deep and slow, and then presses his cheek to his chest, where he can listen to the steady beating of his heart. It’s not easy to voice his real concerns - saying it aloud makes it real, brings all his monsters into the light, where everyone can see them. But right now, it’s only Emil, and he trusts him, so he closes his eyes and lets the demons that haunt him in the unrelenting darkness step into the soft lamp glow of his room.

“What if I fail?”

“Then you try again next season,” Emil tells him this as though it is the most obvious thing in the whole world, and Lalli really wishes it was all so simple. This is also a matter of pride - he _is_ the best, he doesn’t make mistakes. He is Ensi’s grandchild, and the weight of everyone’s expectations has been his burden to bear since he was first deigned good enough to compete.

“I _can’t_ fail.”

This time, it is Emil who holds the silence, absently petting Lalli’s fine, light hair with the arm still resting around his shoulders.

“You know you’re more than what you do, right?” He asks finally, and Lalli doesn’t know how to respond to that, because he has _always_ been tied to his work. Luckily, Emil doesn’t seem to be seeking a verbal response, so he sighs his answer to the quiet room, and reaches out to snag another cinnamon roll, ignoring Emil’s whining that he’s getting crumbs on his sweatshirt.

* * *

Lalli isn’t sure when they fell asleep, but he wakes before dawn, carefully disentangling himself from both the sheets, and Emil’s sleepy embrace. It’s cold outside the sanctuary of their little nest, and he slips off the bed, bare feet hitting the floor with a soft _thump_ as he pads over to close the window.

Slender fingers curl around the sill as he leans out into the early morning air, shivering as it threatens to freeze the moisture from his breath onto his lashes. The snow is gleaming gold from the light of a lone street lamp, and the moon is ringed with ice crystals. Dawn will break just as cold, he thinks, carefully pushing the window back down and locking it.

On the bed, Emil is stirring into awareness, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes and blinking blearily in the dim moonlight.

“What time is it?” He slurs, before answering his own question with a quick glance to his phone. The blue-white glow of his screen illuminates his wide eyes, and he’s up in a flash, fumbling for his things. “Shit, shit, _shit!_ I have to be at the rink in fifteen minutes, Taru’s going to _kill_ me.”

The edge of the bed sinks a little as Lalli perches on it, and Emil glances back at him, taking in the charcoal-dark smudges beneath his eyes, the way his hair is sticking out at odd angles, the groggy hoarseness in his voice when he speaks. _God, he’s beautiful._

“Probably,” he agrees. “Want me to drive you? I’m going to the range.”

“You need to _rest_ ,” gripes Emil, but as usual, there’s no use arguing. 

They load skis and a long padded bag that Emil knows contains Lalli’s rifle into the back of the car, before taking off down freshly plowed roads. The sky is still dark as pine pitch, and it won’t lighten for quite some time - not until well after they’re done with morning workouts, and have gone on with their days. 

Thanks to Lalli’s breaking the speed limit (honestly, he insists, it’s only ten kilometers per hour over, that’s nothing), Emil makes it to the rink in the nick of time, but Taru still decides he’s late, and makes him run though five extra reps. By the end, he feels like he’s going to die, but as he laces up his skates and remembers the feeling of Lalli’s warm body next to his, all he can think is that it was _more_ than worth it.

* * *

Lalli hates plane rides.

By all means, Helsinki is only a hop, skip, and a jump away, but he hates having to arrive hours early, detests the hassle of security, and loathes the lurches and bumps that he firmly believes shouldn’t exist, since they’re in the air.

By the time they touch down, he is an unflattering shade of green, and solid land is a blessing that he rejoices in as he gathers his things from the crowded baggage carousel. Stepping back, he peeks into the padded travel bags to make sure no damage has been done. Travelling with biathlon equipment is always a pain, but it’s unavoidable, and he’s learned how to avoid most of the hassle through the years. He shoulders his bags and gathers himself before stepping into the cold winter air to hail a cab.

Helsinki is far too crowded for Lalli’s taste. He prefers the quiet woods and frozen lakes of his home, but as he leans against the window, counting the gas stations they pass, he notes that Emil might like it very much, with all of its hectic charm. He’s always been more comfortable in the cities than Lalli is.

 _It’s one week,_ he tells himself. _It’s only one week, and then this will be over._ Lalli gathers his luggage from the back of the taxi, gazing up to the brick facade of the intimidatingly large and utterly generic hotel he’ll be sleeping in for the duration of tryouts. It’s best not to think of home, or the people he’s left behind. Now is the time to be here and now, to finally be exactly who he’s supposed to be.

Now is the time to _focus_.

* * *

Emil isn’t really sure how it happened.

It wasn’t even a hard jump to begin with - a single toe loop, he’s been doing them since he was eight - but something goes wrong on the landing, and he hears Taru’s smothered gasp before he can even register that something isn’t right.

There’s an audible _pop_ , and then an overwhelming tidal wave of the worst pain he’s ever felt. The wind has been utterly knocked out of him, and his breath stutters in his lungs as he sprawls across the ice. All he can do is try not to pass out as he puts together what’s happened. 

_No, no, this can’t be happening._

“Don’t move,” Taru barks, as if he could have done so in the first place. She kneels on the ice beside him and examines his right leg, tracing her finger along his outer thigh, down to his knee, and shaking her head.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” she murmurs, but Emil’s eyes are glazed, and she helps him up, careful not to jar his knee. This time, he has enough breath in him to cry out when he tries to put weight on it, and she presses her lips together, expression grim.

“We’re going to the emergency room.” 

Emil doesn’t protest. It takes all of his willpower to limp to Taru’s car, and he doesn’t say a word until the nurse at the front desk asks for his name and date of birth, and then kindly procures a wheelchair so he won’t have to walk anymore.

His mother arrives a half-hour later, just as the doctor is examining his knee. X-rays have already confirmed that no bones are broken, which is good, because casts are definitely not his style, but something is definitely very wrong.

Helga Västerström strokes her son’s blond hair from his clammy forehead, holding his hand as the physician carefully manipulates his injured leg, narrow-eyed and thoughtful.

“So,” the doctor finally says, sitting back on a little rolling stool and clasping her hands over her knee. “No broken bones, but I think what you’ve got here is a third-degree sprain of your anterior cruciate ligament, or ACL. We’ll need to run an MRI to confirm the damage.”

The drugs they’ve given him for the pain are starting to kick in, and he turns his head to look at her, finally able to speak again. “That’s good, right, if that’s what it is? Just a sprain?”

“Emil,” says Taru with utmost gentleness that tells him that it is definitely _not_ good, “A third-degree sprain means you tore it. Completely.”

“Oh.” He knows what _that_ means. Better skaters than him have had their careers ended over injuries similar to this, and he has to swallow down the fear clotting in his throat to ask his next question. “Will I ever skate again?”

The doctor tilts her head to one side, clearly considering her response. “Yes, I think so,” she decides, “but it will be nine months of recovery at the very least, including physical therapy, and you’ll need the surgery to repair it. We can start thinking about that in about three weeks, once the swelling’s gone down. Right now, we’ll do that MRI to confirm, brace and ice it, and give you things for the pain. We can offer…”

His mother and Taru listen attentively, but Emil can’t be bothered, instead choosing to close his eyes and focus on his breathing. So this is how it feels to have your whole world ripped out from under your feet in a fraction of a second. All it took was one mistake, one misplaced landing, and everything he had worked for was in jeopardy.

Eventually, the doctor shakes his hand and leaves, and Taru and Helga turn to him, their eyes full of sympathy that Emil wishes he couldn’t see; he already feels bad enough. 

“They’re going to do the MRI, brace your knee, and then you need to rest for fourteen days. We’ll come back to see if surgery is a viable option,” Helga tells him, fussing over the blanket that someone had draped across his torso. “Right now, I think we should call Lalli and--”

“No!” He gasps, sitting up sharply. His hands are fisted into the sheets, face blanched with pain and panic. “Don’t call Lalli! Call Sigrun, or Mikkel, or Reynir, but _don’t call Lalli_. He can’t know about this. Not until tryouts are over.”

Helga seems taken aback by his outburst, but Taru understands, and rests a firm hand on his shoulder to soothe him. 

“We’ll call Sigrun, then,” she decides, “She’s good at this stuff, you know she fractured her wrist _and_ dislocated her shoulder back when she was training for her first Olympics…”

* * *

Sigrun gets to Emil’s house before he does, with Reynir and Mikkel on her heels. They’re waiting on the porch when he arrives, their arms laden with bags of treats and various gels that she insists will help with the pain and swelling. She and Reynir have clearly come straight from training - they’re still in their thermals, with frozen sweat sticking their hair to their cheeks, but they’re here, and Emil wonders what he did to deserve such great friends. 

None of them are any stranger to injuries, but Sigrun declares that “a torn ACL is cause for a pity party” and plops a giant tin of butter cookies onto the coffee table.

Emil is exhausted, and wants nothing more than to sleep away this nightmare, but he lets his friends fuss over him, and makes them all swear on their lives not to tell Lalli, because he doesn’t need the distractions, and really, it isn’t like Emil is actively dying. It just hurts. A lot.

Reynir has brought movies, and they pop one into the DVD player and squeeze in together on the couch. Normally, Lalli would join them, perched on the arm rest, or on the floor in front of Emil’s knees, but the space he would occupy is empty, and Emil’s chest twinges. 

Eventually, he dozes off on the couch halfway through the movie, his knee propped up on the coffee table, and his head resting on Sigrun’s shoulder. When he wakes, his friends are still there, keeping quiet watch over him under the flickering light of the television.

* * *

When Lalli is skiing, the whole world boils down to the sibilant song of snow beneath his skis, the cold air filling his lungs, and the wind chafing his cheeks raw. Usually, there is nothing more purifying and liberating than an early morning run, but this time is different. This time, it counts.

The first set of targets is a breeze. Lalli lets his ski poles fall and drops to the prone position, catching his breath and steadying his hands. Smoothly, he shoulders his rifle, and sights down the barrel, eyes narrowing as he fixes on his target: a tiny black disc fifty meters down range. He fires, then again, and again; the crisp _pings_ that echo across the virgin snow, and the targets flipping from black to white indicate that he has hit his mark.

He doesn’t have long to get back up and clipped into his skis - every second counts. Thankfully, it’s muscle memory at this point, and he’s off on his second lap before he can slow down enough to think about it. That’s good - thinking too much is poison in a race. Stamina and precision are the names of the game.

Five laps, four rounds of shooting, and he makes all of his shots. When he crosses the line at the end, sweat-soaked and silently triumphant, the judges give him a nod, and record his time. There are still several more athletes who need to finish, so he takes the offered bottle of water and wraps himself back in his heavy parka, perching on an icy bench near the judge’s table.

After the most agonizing wait of Lalli’s life, the competitors’ final times light up a board at the end of the track, in order from fastest, to slowest. His time shines in green at the very top: forty-eight minutes, five point three seconds. 

He exhales, feeling the weight of fifteen years lift from his shoulders. _He’s going to the Olympics._

* * *

_Lalli Hotakainen to Tuuri Hotakainen_

_20:32_

Qualified with 48:05.3. I’m coming home early. 

_Tuuri Hotakainen to Lalli Hotakainen_

_20:32_

OMG! you made it, i knew you would! that time is amazing! we’re SO proud of you, onni is crying!! <3

_Lalli Hotakainen to Tuuri Hotakainen_

_20:34_

Thanks. I’m home late tonight, catching the last flight. No time to catch the one at 21:30.

_Tuuri Hotakainen to Lalli Hotakainen_

_20:35_

we’re ready to see you again! :) if you’re not too tired, i think emil would love a visit from you. have you told him?

_Lalli Hotakainen to Tuuri Hotakainen_

_20:41_

No.

_Tuuri Hotakainen to Lalli Hotakainen_

_20:42_

tell him! he could use the good news. ;)

_Lalli Hotakainen to Tuuri Hotakainen_

_20:42_

Why? Did something happen?

_Tuuri Hotakainen to Lalli Hotakainen_

_20:43_

he didn’t tell you?!

_Tuuri Hotakainen to Lalli Hotakainen_

_20:43_

lalli he tore his ACL on tuesday. he won’t be skating for a while.

_Lalli Hotakainen to Tuuri Hotakainen_

_20:44_

I’m catching the earlier flight.

* * *

The flight home is only an hour, but to Lalli, it is an eternity of absolute misery. He tucks himself into his hoodie and curls against the window, knees drawn up to his chest as he sucks on a mint to try to settle his protesting stomach. Throwing up on a plane is never a pleasant experience for him, or anyone in his immediate vicinity.

Maybe it’s lucky that his thoughts are so distracting. He’s stuck swinging between euphoria at qualifying to represent Finland in the Winter Olympics, and horror and betrayal at the news Tuuri had shared with him. _Tuesday._ Emil had been injured on Tuesday. It was Friday. 

Why hadn’t Emil told him? They’re best friends. They tell each other everything, see each other nearly every day, even if it’s only for a few minutes between practice and classes. Lalli is picky with his friends (though maybe it’s just that he finds it very hard to make them,) but Emil has always taken everything about him in his stride. He remembers which touches Lalli likes, and which ones he doesn’t appreciate. If Lalli is nonverbal, Emil is sure to only ask yes or no questions, and always respects his silence. When Lalli is sore and tired, he’ll sit with him and rub minty liniment into his weary muscles, chatting aimlessly all the while. He spent hours with a tutor picking up the basics of Lalli’s native Finnish, not because he needed to, but because he wanted to.

Sure, Emil is messy, and he has a tendency to put his foot in his mouth, but there is no one else Lalli would rather spend his days with, no one else Lalli loves like he loves Emil.

 _Oh. Oh shit_ , thinks Lalli, and he lunges for the air sickness bag just as they touch back down on the runway.

* * *

The drive to Emil’s house is almost as familiar to Lalli as the drive to his own home, and he takes the turns on autopilot, barely realizing what he’s doing until he’s pulling into the driveway and hopping out, grabbing his things from the trunk as an afterthought. He’d rather not risk his equipment being stolen.

The door swings open before he can even knock - someone must have seen him pull up.

“Lalli, welcome home, congratulations. Your mother just called to tell us the news,” Torolf Västerström steps aside to let him in, taking the long bags containing his skis and rifle and propping them against the doorframe. Lalli kicks off his boots and leaves them on the tray by the door, hanging his coat up beside them. “I assume you’re here for Emil? He’s upstairs, but he might be asleep. He’s on some strong pain medication right now.”

“Thanks,” mumbles Lalli, making his best effort to avoid eye contact as he slips up the stairs, stopping just outside Emil’s closed door. Normally, he would just go in, but this time, he hesitates, pressing the curve of his ear to the painted wood. Ringing silence greets him - Torolf’s prediction seems to be correct so far. Maybe he won’t have to face Emil after all.

 _No,_ he tells himself. He has to do this, has to see if he’s okay and be there for him. The hinges creak just a little when he pushes the door open, and a blanketed lump in the bed stirs. Emil emerges from under the quilts, blinking blearily in the warm glow of the lamp on his bedside table. 

“Lalli?” He croaks, and suddenly, Emil’s heart is in his throat, and he isn’t quite sure what to say. He gapes for a moment, and then spits out the first thing on his mind. “I...thought you were coming home tomorrow.”

“I caught an earlier flight,” Lalli says, shifting uncomfortably in the doorway. He doesn’t seem to want to cross the threshold. That’s new - they’ve never been out of place in each other’s spaces before.

Neither of them says anything for nearly a minute. Lalli’s attentive eyes are locked on Emil’s, and his mouth is dry as a desert. _Shit_. He had really banked on having more time to formulate what he was going to say to Lalli, but clearly that was out of the question now.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” asks Lalli finally, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind himself. His movements are cautious, but still as elegant as always. Everything Lalli does looks like a dance to Emil, strange, and so breathtakingly beautiful.

“Didn’t want to distract you,” he admits, tearing his eyes away and shifting the pile of blankets so that his best friend can sit on the bed beside him. Lalli perches gingerly on the edge of the mattress, watching him like a hawk, and Emil can’t help but laugh weakly and pat the vacant space next to him in an invitation. “You can come closer. I’m not going to bite, just don’t sit on my knee.”

It takes a moment, but Lalli swings his legs up, and takes his place at Emil’s side, falling back into the pillows and closing his eyes. He’s suddenly and acutely aware of how tired he is; the day’s travel has been brutal, and he hadn’t really slept well in Helsinki. The hotel room had been too big, too hot, too empty, and his racing thoughts had haunted him until the wee hours of the morning.

“You have to tell me stuff,” he whispers, and Emil’s heart wrenches at the splinters of pain in his voice. “I can’t be there for you if you don’t _tell me_ things, Emil.”

“I’m sorry. I thought...I thought it would be best not to tell you.”

Lalli opens his eyes and rests his cheek on the pillow so that he’s facing Emil, reaching out to smooth his hair with one hand. Emil mirrors his posture, wincing as he shifts again and jars his swollen knee. It’s braced and iced, and there are two different kinds of painkiller coursing through his veins, but it’s still smarting. Lalli’s gentle, absent touches soothe him enough to stay still and bear it.

“I made the team,” says Lalli, and Emil sits up properly, face splitting into a wide grin. His eyes are dancing with that fire that makes Lalli’s heart jump into his throat, and he wonders if his cheeks look as red-hot as they feel. 

“Lalli, that’s amazing! The Olympics, for Finland! That’s your dream! Does everyone else know yet?”

“No. You’re the first person I’ve told outside of family. I think my mom’s been calling people, though.”

Emil gets the message, and exhales, reaching out to brush a wayward strand of hair from Lalli’s cheek. The Finn’s eyes flutter, and Emil gently traces his thumb down his jawline, pressing his lips together. 

“I fucked up, didn’t I?”

Lalli nods slowly and sits up in turn, slumping when Emil reaches out and gingerly gathers him into his lap, careful not to bump his knee. 

“I would have made it even if you had told me. If I didn’t qualify, there’s always next season,” he mumbles, straddling his thighs and resting his chin on Emil’s shoulder. He’s staring fixedly at the tufted headboard behind them, so still that he might be made of ice. “Biathlon isn’t the most important thing in my life.”

The soft huff of laughter from Emil’s throat stirs the soft hair by his temple, and Lalli pulls back to rest his hands on his shoulders, staring solemnly into fathomless blue eyes. All the things he wants to say are written plainly across his face, and he’s half praying that Emil understands, and half praying that he doesn’t.

“I mean it.”

Emil stops laughing, looking up to Lalli and resting his hands on his slender waist, partially to support him, and partially because he needs to feel him to be sure he’s real, that he has really come home.

“I know you do. I’m sorry.”

For the second time in a week, Emil isn’t quite sure how an earthshattering event actually happens. Lalli’s hands slide up from his shoulders to cup his face, and they are so close that he can feel his warm breath fanning across his cheeks, peppermint and cinnamon, and see the shining gleam of _want, need, love_ in his grey eyes. Emil doesn’t know who leans in first, but when their lips meet, it’s like an explosion and an avalanche all at once. 

Lalli is kissing him, and it feels like a star has gone supernova in his head. It’s dizzying and clumsy and perfect, and Emil’s hands are shaking as he wraps them around Lalli’s willowy hips and skims them along his back. He’s holding on like Lalli’s the only thing that has ever really mattered, because he _is._ This is more precious than any medal either of them could have ever brought home, sweeter than any victory on the ice and snow.

Emil’s wanted to kiss Lalli for a while, actually, but he’s never thought about voicing those thoughts to anyone, especially not to Lalli himself. Lalli has always seemed too proud, too cold, too untouchable for the softness if Emil’s love for him. For a brief moment, he wonders if he’s been too obvious with his attraction and if Lalli has known all along, but then Lalli is growing bolder, nipping at his lip, and Emil stops thinking entirely, surrendering to the way they feel together.

* * *

They fall back into the pillows, breathless and rumpled, and Emil rubs the crook of his neck absently, still tingling and flushed with pleasure. There’s definitely going to be a very obvious mark there in the morning - thank heaven for thermal layers and bulky winter sweaters, even if he’s going to be stuck inside. 

_Worth it,_ he thinks.

Lalli has rested his head on the expanse of his chest, and Emil drapes an arm around his bony shoulders, eyes fluttering closed as he gropes for the lamp to turn it off. His fingers reach their mark after some fumbling and cursing, and he can practically _feel_ Lalli rolling his eyes.

They lay together in the quiet darkness, still and warm and _together_. It’s been a long week for both of them, but Emil’s heart is at peace, and his eyelids are growing heavy. Before he can drift off, Lalli poses a final question, his husky voice already thick with sleep.

“...will you come to Beijing?”

Without much effort, Emil finds Lalli’s hand in the dark, and interlaces their fingers, giving his calloused palm a squeeze.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> **VERY IMPORTANT EDIT!!! The beautiful and talented acina_m has made art for this! Go look at it and cry like I did. https://trashpocket.tumblr.com/post/624847643859877888/winter-city-by-livia1291-lalli-is-kissing-him
> 
> LONG NOTES AHOY!! “This will be short," I said, "no more than 5,000 words," I said. Aha.
> 
> This was written as a sort of love letter to my own winter city, and to the ridiculously dangerous art of winter sports. Seriously, is there a single one that doesn't involve risking your neck? I don't think so. I love xc skiing just as much as the next guy, but I can't imagine doing it with a rifle strapped to my back. I fall on my face enough as it is (but hey, we're all out there to have fun. Or at least, most of us are. Some of us are out there to kick ass and take names.)
> 
> A special thanks to my dear friend who is an actual hardcore athlete and helped me with a few of the technical things, to my friends who asked “hey, did you write this about our trip to Pr—“ and promptly got shushed, and to my friend who caught onto the maple syrup thing. Putting maple syrup in coffee, yogurt, pancakes, waffles, sausage, milkshakes, alcohol, and really anything edible is totally normal and has nothing at all to do with Québec. Love you both!
> 
> There is a sauna scene outtake on my tumblr blog, under the same username I use here!
> 
> GLOSS:  
> Triple Axel - a variation of the Axel jump in figure skating. A triple Axel is an edge jump (uses the edge of the skate) and is 3.5 turns above the ice; considered to be one of the most complicated jumps in figure skating.
> 
> Vitamin D supplements + fish oil - some of the many ways to deal with seasonal affective disorder and the other forms of depression that come with getting 3 hours of sunlight a day, if the clouds have mercy on you. Other ways include continued physical activity, and sitting in front of a sun lamp.
> 
> Ice baths - used to alleviate muscle soreness caused by a buildup of lactic acid. One should stay in them anywhere from 8 to 15 minutes.
> 
> Korvapuusti - Literally "slapped ears." Finnish cinnamon rolls with cardamom.
> 
> Toe Loop - another kind of figure skating jump, using the toe pick instead of the edge of the blade. The simplest jump in figure skating.
> 
> Beijing - the city that will host the 2022 Winter Olympics


End file.
